With a Heart so Weary
by teasetillyoudrop
Summary: Tim quits the hero business and deals with the consequences. Tim/Bruce
1. Futility

Disclamer: I don't own Batman or any character associated with the DC title and I make no money from this piece.

Tim's not used to this freedom. Being able to stay in bed up to noon, moving with the speed of a snail to get make brunch with whatever he bought at the nearest convenience store.

He has nothing to do. Well not nothing, just nothing important, nothing that makes him hurry.

No urgency.

His apartment's full of unpacked boxes, labeled with Alfred's flowing, concise script, impersonal in their perfection, personal in Alfred's silent approval.

His keystrokes echo throughout the apartment.

Reminds him of sounds bouncing around water slicked walls. Screeching bats.

Tim's not lonely. He's used to the quiet of working alone. Bruce used to leave him all by himself, to figure out a puzzle, a riddle, that's not worth Batman's attention.

But the roaring quiet, the emptiness is disconcerting.

In the mansion, he'd have Alfred puttering about. Asking him if he'd like a sandwich, a break, anything to help keep his energies up and his body happy.

Right now his back's telling him to stand, move, turn, bend, anything but sit still like he's been doing for the past eight hours.

Watching a recent news reel, a low resolution film of Batman standing alongside Superman, offering his presence as the Justice League gives a press release about a recent alien threat.

He misses the batcave's computers. It had enough programs for him to fix the pixelation from the low quality shot. He can't see the expression on Superman's face, much less anything from Batman, other than that silent, stiff backed stance.

He misses being able to see, hear, feel how Batman feels not moments after these big press releases. How Bruce would be fired up, mouth in that sardonic grin, eyes alert and watching, but silent, keeping thoughts to himself until Tim's curiosity makes him talk.

Memories past.

But all the same, he's interested.

His apartment's a blank canvas, filled with nothing but boxes surrounding his basic lonely bed and desktop.

The white, empty walls would drive Dick crazy. He'd fill it up with as much pictures of his family, his friends, his _life_.

Dick would make him fill it, if the older man knew where he's moved. If he knew _that_ he moved.

He doubts Bruce said anything, and Alfred wouldn't say anything without Dick asking.

Dick... Dick would be too distracted, too amped to notice him gone.

It's happened in the past.

And he can't find himself to care.

It takes him five more days to find out what to do with his walls and by the time he realizes _what_ exactly he's doing, he can't help but laugh at himself.

This is familiar territory.

His boxes are unpacked, his new bookshelves stocked with study books he's previously powered through, but never enjoyed. There was never enough time, never enough breathing space.

His floor space taken up by a couch and coffee table of his choosing.

But those weren't important. They functioned. Served their purpose.

The western wall, the wall adjacent to his bed, is covered in photos and news clippings. News of Batman and Robin's current escapades, the close calls, the grateful citizens.

News of Nightwing's dauntless duty to Gotham, always laughing, always in a relaxed pose with confidence shining so bright Tim smiles every time he looks at that group of photos.

It reminds him of his pre-Robin days, following Batman and Robin's every action. It makes him giddy that he could follow them, without following them. That he could see where they fail to be the Dynamic Duo, it's in the defensive distant stance of Robin and the extreme downturn of Batman's lips.

And it distracts him from the locked suitcase under his bed.

Dick would expect him to hide secrets in his desktop. He'd have a ball breaking through Tim's firewalls. He'd be able to do it without even visiting.

No, Tim's learned to keep secrets physical, to hide it in the most obvious place.

The suitcase is nothing special; it's a remnant of _his_ father's business.

The photos he's printed in it weren't either.

Bruce in an over the top dressy gala, holding the hand of some unknown -he doesn't really care to know who- model. Hand's on her shapely hips, neck within her own arms.

Bruce standing in front of the newly renovated Gotham Central Library, almost genuinely smiling, pleased that his money has helped Gotham once again.

Bruce frowning in a Wayne Industries meeting, white knuckled and jaw stiff. Well that one he used Bruce's own installed cameras to take.

The photos themselves are nothing special.

Most of them are accessible online.

But the accusing creases around the edges.

The water marks reflecting, incriminating, on their surfaces.

Those remind him how much, in the middle of the night, he'd sit and touch those photos.

Staring. Learning.

Think how much time he's spent, wasted spying on someone he can see with the turn of a key.

Fighting with the roiling, uneasy unhappiness eating at his heart, leaving a nasty feeling in his gut.

Wiping salty tears.

Bruce's smile in recent photos are less guarded. His eyes surrounded with more wrinkles than Tim remembers. Than Tim's memorized.

Feeling hot red jealousy at Damian for finally starting to understand what Batman and Robin truly means.

Feeling green-eyed envy for Dick's constant, expected, _obvious_ place in Bruce's life.

Distance.

Distance.

Distance

That's what he needs.

That's why he left.

That's why he _needed_ to leave.

He breathes in, quells the queasy _something_ wrecking his sanity and picks up the only pristine, untouched object in the case.

Opening the note he found only a few days after he left with shaking, clammy fingers.

Feeling unbridled joy at the simple words "Come visit, please," written, _written_, neatly across the embossed page.

He realizes.

It's made no difference at all.


	2. Simply in Strength

Disclamer: I don't own Batman or any character associated with the DC title and I make no money from this piece.

Tim's heart races with trepidation.

The batcave is as cold as he remembers. Cold, but lively.

He hangs back to watch his brother's bother Bruce. Damian pouting about an inane observation, bragging about his latest bout of kicking ass, discretely asking to patrol alone. Dick constantly moving all over the room, sitting at the console one minute, flipping at the uneven bars the next, all the while babbling about his day.

He watches them live their life, function as a unit.

Dick gives Damian a proud noogie, painful, unwanted. The young boy screams, threatens bodily harm. Dick chortles, dances off with a parting taunt. Damian, furious and loud, follows after him, yelling all the way to the entrance of the cave.

Bruce... Bruce stays silent. He knows Bruce is in the cave, his brothers wouldn't be there, wouldn't be loud without him somewhere in the cave. He remembers his and Dick's rambling bickering, Bruce's amused offhanded comments.

He walks past the computer, the blue screen actively scrolling with new information cross-matching with old, always vigilant, always _needed_.

He walks through the trophy cases, trailing his fingers through familiar glass cases, feeling undercurrents of pleasurable nostalgia.

He continues to wander the trophy room, looking for Bruce he hits foreign objects mocking him, questioning why he's invaded their solace. The bone white owl mask staring, unnerving in it's blankness.

A reminder. He wasn't there. Bruce was hurt.

Tim's breath rattles little, wishes to turn the mask the opposite way. The visit's already heavy in his heart, guilt gnawing in all directions.

He tears himself away from its sight and walks past them, where the cars and jets rested.

Oil stained jogging pants under the current batmobile, the one Damian had fixed, enhanced.

"Hello Tim," muffled, deep voice drifts from under the batmobile.

"Hi Bruce," feels pride at his steady voice, "good to see Damian and Dick get along like usual."

Bruce hums his agreement.

Quiet blankets the cave, the comfort, casual air that usually comes with it is absent, to Tim at least. "It's great to see y- everyone," Tim bites his lip.

"Let me finish with this," Tim hears more clinks and clunks.

"Damian's pet project finally broke?" Tim touches the juiced up batmobile beside him. His resentment of Damian familiar on his tongue.

Bruce pauses, one, two, three seconds maybe more. "No," there's something in his voice, something Tim's not familiar with, "merely improving it."

"You mean it's not perfect,"

"Nothing's perfect, Tim."

_We were_, "He sure as hell acted like it."

"...Language." There's that pause again, like Bruce is planning his next move, solving a puzzle only he can see. A puzzle with Tim in it.

"I'll put money in the jar," he kicks the tire in front of him, notices that he's right there, standing beside the hover batmobile, inches from Bruce's inert legs.

A non-committal hum.

Walking on eggshells. He kicks the tire again, the relief the action supplies out of place.

Bruce hits something accidentally, mutters "Damn" loud enough that Tim laughs. Ignores the frantic start and rolls with it.

His skin stops crawling. The oppressing tension in the room lessens enough for him to breath a little more naturally. Not the short, almost pained not-gasps he's been keeping quiet.

Bruce lets out a frustrated huff, pushes and rolls himself out from under the batmobile, into the open, into Tim's sight.

The form fitting tank leaves nothing to imagination, the jogging pants loosely hanging on sharp hips. Tim swallows.

Bruce rises with grace Tim's dreamed for years, shakes himself a little, and holds out his arms.

"Welcome back."

Tim's not, he'll never be, but he rushes the older man. Hold's his arms around that strong corded neck. It's the safest route, he can't trust his hands from wandering. He breathes, shaky, opens his mouth and stops, squeezes himself against Bruce instead.

Bruce strokes his back, offering comfort that Tim can't feel.

"I missed you," Tim whispers soft, halting, hiding himself against that strong chest, "so much."

Bruce's patting freezes, hesitates just a fraction enough for Tim to notice, resumes, "WE missed you too."

Tim buries his face, rubs his nose harder against wall of flesh, "I said I missed you," he says, voice rising, "Me, Tim. I missed _you_."

He feels Bruce withdraw, body stiffening, arms raising.

"Bruce, please," Tim holds on harder," just... please."

_Say you want me back_.

"Tim..." Bruce's arms first drop to Tim's hips, then slips to rest near his body imitating an unmoving pole wrapped, trapped, by Tim's arms. "I...I missed you too."

Tim rips himself away with a cry, "Gee Bruce, way to sound convincing," blinding anger without target. He's not crying, yet, but his throat feels raw, like he's swallowed a spoonful of glass, breathed in a plume of smoke.

"Tim I-"

"No you didn't."

"What."

"I looked for them. Cameras," Tim spits, cutting off the panicked laugh bubbling to the surface, "you had camera's all over Dick's _life_."

"Tim that's-" Bruce reaches for him.

"That's _you_. All you," Tim advances, hands clenching, "you cared enough to spy on him."

"I've learned from that. Privacy."

"Bull shit!" Tim can't stop, can't shut his mouth from hurting both of them, "Your cameras are all over Gotham. _All over_. Except for one place. My studio. All but my studio."

"Tim," Bruce grips his chin, levels him an uncertain, wary look, "You needed space, I..."

Tim tries to wretch his head out of that sure grip, finds himself caught, gives an unwavering stare in return, "That didn't stop you with Dick."

"I didn't want to smother you," Bruce's voice rises with frustration, "Drive you away like I did him."

"So you drop a note and never come by?"

"You needed space."

"Me?!" Tim lunges, surprising the older man. Pushes and trips Bruce down against the batmobile, "I didn't need space. You did."

His chest hurts, his head pounds. Bruce's hands settle on the hood, pointed, no touch to tell him everything's going to be all right.

"You did..." Tim repeats, voice cracking, stumbling. He climbs higher on the batmobile, drops his head on a calm chest, bowing his back to corner Bruce's hips between his knees, "You did."

Bruce stays quiet as Tim cries his frustration into the white shirt gripped tightly in his hands.

"We...we can't, Tim," A shaking palm lands on his left shoulder, applying pressure opposite his own.

"I know," Tim hears raucous sounds coming from the study room entrance.

"You are Timothy Drake-_Wayne_," Bruce's other hand join to push the Tim's other shoulder, firmer this time, with more force.

"I know," Tim looks up, sees answering sadness in haunting blue eyes, "I know".

Tim breathes in once, grabs a hand while he rests on his haunches. Kisses the white wrist in his grip before shimmying down.

Bruce gives him some time to right himself, to vigorously scrub at the tears in his face, to hide the evidence from the world.

Bruce rises, walking towards the medical bay, wetting the towel he tosses Tim's way. Tim wants to thank him, to smile, but it's too soon.

He'll break.

He rubs his face with the warm towel as the the batcave entrance groans, opening, shifting the air between them.

"Man, I was just joking Da- _Hey_, Timmy!" Dick calls him from the stairs, his voice racing through the cave, "I missed you soooooo" Dick flips towards them, catching him in a bone grinding hug, "So much little bro!" Dick sing-songs.

Tim laughs, fails at sounding happy by the way Dick's hug loosens. "I missed you too, Dick," he hugs the older man with as much force as he can, hoping it distracts him from thinking.

"What have you been doing?" Dick asks, with his face inches from Tim's face, "I bet you're having fun,"

"Not much, and not really." Tim sighs, tired, bone deep tired.

"Well that's no fun," Dick frowns, glance switching from Bruce and Tim, eyebrows furrowed and confused. "Here, lemme show you what I did when I flew the nest," Dick holds his wrist in a sure grip that Tim can't shake.

Tim wants to leave, he feels too tender, exposed. A glance Damian's way reveals a frowning, almost worried face. At Dick? At Tim? At Bruce? He's not sure. He doesn't want to be sure.

He spares a look at Bruce, sees an unreadable expression on his face.

Squishes the weak willed hope blossoming in his chest.

He's not ready for another round.

He'll prepare next time.

He'll stay strong, be in control.

Next time.


End file.
